


Foie Gras

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Pasiphaë and the Bull [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, disguised as a simple story about two criminals doing it, meditation on power as relates to gender and disability, violence on par with what appears on the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every delicacy carries a hint of the grotesque.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foie Gras

**Author's Note:**

> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Please don't send Batman after me. Do not try any of this at home. Please tip your wait staff. Thank you, and good night.

But what does Sal Maroni love? That's an easy one.  
Sal Maroni loves power. Power, as is known by anyone who doesn't have it, is the ability to anything to anybody, whether they want you to or not. If you're sufficiently powerful, they'll even want you to.  
So, in retrospect, it's not very surprising at all when Maroni asks him, smiling that great, bright smile, “So, what was it you did for Fish?”  
Oswald's sure he's been asked the question before, but like a parent repeating a much-loved story, he answers it again: “Held her umbrella, mostly.” Then he adds: “That's how I found out so much. It was like I wasn't even there.”  
“That it?”  
“Well, yes.”  
“It's just that I heard that she likes her boys to multitask.”  
Oswald frowns.  
“She likes to get friendly with the help.”  
He smiles, laughs. “Oh, yes. Many of her boyfriends also work for her.”  
“But not you.”  
“No. I'm afraid not.”  
Maroni leans in. “Personally, I'd be afraid if she asked me. That slap she gave you, it looked like she'd had a lot of practice. So, you and her, never...”  
“No. No.”  
“But you would have.”  
Feeling a little helpless, Owald smiles, letting the helplessness show. “She's an attractive woman.”  
“She's a powerful woman.”  
“Oh, yes.”  
“That do it for you- power?”  
Oswald replies gravely, “It's the only thing worth having. Aside from respect.”  
“And loyalty.”  
“Yes,” he nods, “Loyalty is important.”  
“Knowing who you can trust. Do you think Fish Mooney trusts any of her little boy-toys?”  
Oswald shakes his head.  
“Because she doesn't respect them. All she cares about is a pretty face. But men of vision, men like you and me, we know that there are more important things than beauty.”  
This is a strange conversation. It's obvious that Maroni is trying to say something without using the actual words. Why can't he just say what he means? That was something that Oswald always found reassuring about Fish: she said what she meant. She might twist the truth or outright lie, but she did it plainly. No one made any mistakes around her. You disobeyed her at your own peril- and you knew exactly what you were doing.  
“Do you want me to spell it out for you?” Maroni's still smiling, but the smile has changed, and now it's the one that someone smiles at you when they've just told a joke at your expense.  
“Could you?”  
The sunny expression comes back. “That's my fault. I didn't think you were that innocent.”  
“I'm not.”  
“Then, how about it?” To Oswald's blank expression, he says, “You and me.” Maroni's had a hand high on Oswald's back, heavy with warmth, and he moves it down. Not all the way down, but far enough that all of a sudden, all of the pieces fall into place, and Oswald can't help but say, “Oh- that's what you mean.”  
“Yeah.” Maroni's voice is lower, kind of rough, like pieces of rusted metal grinding together. “So, how about it?”  
Most people don't know what power really is until they're crashing into it. Oswald knows; he just never expected to crash into it in this particular way. “How could I refuse?” he says, in a light voice, so that the reality of the question is obscured.  
“Good. I'm glad to hear it.” And then, there's talk of hotels- penthouses- country houses- trips out of town, and for all the talk, no definite plans are made. But plans are made for Oswald, all the same.

Men like Maroni are used to the finer things is life. So is Oswald- even if he hasn't actually experienced a lot of them. He knows the difference, though, which makes him wonder what the hell Maroni wants with him. When Oswald can look without anyone noticing, he compares the other men who work for Maroni to himself. The only thing he really has on any of them is youth; he's older than he looks, but he's still younger than them by at least ten years. Is youth so important? It's important to women, he knows, to his mother, but is it important to men? Is he more like a woman than the others for being younger? After being surrounded by large, gruff men, gray of hair and expression, does Maroni find him girlish? Unconsciously, he touches his hair, then frowns. Should he stop doing that? Stop laughing and smiling? Stop dressing the way he does? Has he accidentally confused everybody? Has he confused himself?  
He shakes his head. Of course not. It's ridiculous. If a man likes a man, it isn't because he thinks he's a woman. Even Oswald knows that much. It comes back, he's sure, to power. As all things must. You see a thing you want, and you take it. That it's the least likely thing might make it better. There's surprise, then, turning slowly into gratitude, which is the finest thing of all. To have someone in your debt, to own them. Someone overlooked and unexpected. Oswald thinks, now, that he understands.  
After a few weeks, he's summoned; it's unmistakable when it happens. When he's summoned, he's sure to look his best, to wear something new: a suit of matte black, rich and impenetrable, cold and stark against his white shirt. His mother flutters about him having a date, first playfully, then sharply, when he doesn't reply.  
He's told her already, but he repeats himself, probably verbatim: “It's just something I have to do for work.”  
She claps her hands together. “Ah, good. They should appreciate what a diligent worker they have in you.”  
“Oh, they do. I'm going places.”  
She smiles, and he lets her fuss at him. When she sees him again, will he look different to her? Upon reflection, he imagines not. All of these years, she's imagined him being seduced a thousand times over, by a thousand trollops, whores, and gold diggers- when no such thing ever occurred anywhere but in her fancies. Surely, the absence of seduction would be as detectable as its remains. He's beginning to think that his mother doesn't know very much about anything.  
“I have to go, now.”  
Following him to the door, she begins to wring her hands. “Don't stay out too late. And don't drink. And don't go off with strange women.”  
“I won't.”  
“Have a good time.” She waves, and he looks at her for a second, framed by the open door, before closing it, and going on his way.  
A car is sent to pick him up. And deliver him. At least he's going to a hotel, he learns from the driver, in Gotham; not being taken out of town. He's had enough of traveling. It would suit him to never leave Gotham again.  
He's escorted through the lobby to an elevator, which rises high into the corona of the building. On the twenty-fifth floor, he's shown out, into a space that's more like a small home than a hotel room, or even a suite. Oh. It's a party, he's surprised to discover. The presence of all of the people is first reassuring, then not entirely welcome, and soon begins to grate. Upon entering, Maroni immediately took him by the arm, and he's been guiding him from stranger to stranger. Is Oswald being shown off? That can't be true. Why would anyone admit to- any of this? Could it somehow show on him, though? That he's soon to be seduced, but not by a trollop, a whore, or a gold digger? By one of the most powerful men in Gotham. Is this what everyone's meant to see?  
“Loosen up, Penguin,” says Maroni, and hands him a drink. Oswald smiles, and downs it.  
“Thirsty, huh?”  
“It's very good,” says Oswald, raising the empty glass.  
Maroni gestures for the waiter to come over, and then gives Oswald another.  
“Nervous?”  
“I didn't expect a party.”  
“Always expect the unexpected.”  
Oswald nods. He's given more drinks, shown to more people. Soon, his irritation at the crush of the crowd falls away, and the mass of presences seems to cradle and to rock him in the low lights. The alcohol warms him and makes him feel soft inside, lets him move with the motion of the bodies as he's passed among them.  
After a while- he doesn't know how long, Maroni says, “Come on,” he lays a hand on Oswald's shoulder and squeezes, “I've got a surprise for you.”  
The words get swallowed by the alcohol, and Oswald follows, no longer afraid or nervous or vexed or much of anything. Down hallways, and through room after room, until he's no longer sure that they're at the party, or even in the hotel.  
In a bathroom, he finds his surprise, which turns out to be a man in a tuxedo, handcuffed to the toilet.  
“What did he do?” Oswald asks. Someone's been hitting him, but not with very much interest.  
One of the other men in the bathroom, this one standing, obviously an associate of Maroni's, looks first at Oswald and then at Maroni.  
“Something he shouldn't have. But he's not going to do it again, is he?”  
“No,” moans the man chained to the toilet, and Maroni laughs, then kicks him in the side. Oswald laughs, too, then looks at Maroni, smiling his sunny smile.  
“You want a turn, Penguin?” Maroni asks.  
Oswald nods. He crouches, the alcohol buffeting the pain he'd usually feel, and hits the man hard on the jaw.  
“Your jacket,” Maroni says, soft and faraway. Oswald feels himself being lifted. As Maroni takes off his jacket, Oswald looks at the chained man, blood-rich spittle laced between his purpled lips, rolling down his chin. He looks at Maroni. Maroni nods. This time, there's a little pain, from bending his legs too quickly, and he gives that pain to the chained man. Hits him again and again, until the ache in his hands and shoulders pierces inebriation, and he's sagging against this strange person like a fatigued boxer, spirit willing but flesh weak. It's as if Maroni knows this, knows how he feels, because he pulls him up again, holds Oswald against himself to steady him, throws an arm across his shoulders.  
“That's how you make someone repent,” Maroni says, and everyone laughs. No one louder than Oswald.  
“We should get you cleaned up,” Maroni says. Oswald nods. He's lead through more chambers and passageways, to another bathroom. He isn't feeling as drunk, now, but this place is still so disorienting.  
“I thought you'd enjoy that. People told me that about you. That that's the kind of thing you like,” Maroni says.  
Oswald looks up, startled, then nods again. It's only then that he notices that he's breathing heavily.  
Then, softer: “You even got some of that stronzo's blood on your face. Hold still.”  
Oswald closes his eyes, hears the water run, then feels the warm washcloth on his face. He leans into it, lets Maroni gently rub the blood away, and then replace the washcloth with his hand.  
“This is why I like you, Penguin: everything you do, you do it completely. No gray, only black or white.”  
Oswald smiles, and lets himself be kissed. It's not unlike being gently rubbed clean. Only with mouths. And hands touching him, lighting him up with the shock, the unfamiliarity of feeling. He feels himself moving as though being compelled by the tug of a string, or a jolt of electricity.  
“You're going to need to burn this,” Maroni says, and takes off Oswald's shirt, “Too much blood. You needed to soak it, before the stains set in. Now, it's just evidence.”  
All he can do is hold on. The room is freezing, and he's half-naked, now, trembling and goose-fleshed, and he thinks about what Maroni said, weeks ago, now, about him being the golden goose. Is this worth its weight in gold?  
It must be worth something, because Maroni lifts him a little, and he's sitting on the counter; eases him back, so that his feet don't touch the floor. It's such a relief; he hadn't even realized that his legs were hurting until the pain abated. Hands on his knees, Maroni spreads his legs, stands between them, continues to kiss him, to touch him. To touch all of these parts that must not have existed until this moment, when they began to fade into view. Before, Oswald must have been like a ghost, barely a body. Feeling pain, or feeling nothing. But to be touched like this by someone- It doesn't even matter who it is. With his eyes closed, Maroni could be anybody. One of his mother's phantom harlots- Fish Mooney- Jim Gordon- Carmine Falcone. Isn't that power, too? The power to completely ignore reality, and to alter it to your liking?  
It gets scary, though- all of those faces in the dark- and after a while, it becomes impossible to control who he's seeing. Thankfully, Maroni's lost his shirt, too, so now, there's no mistaking his warmth, his weight, his solidity. It's so cold, and Oswald wraps around, holds on, buries his face in Maroni's neck, his shoulder, licks cologne off of soft skin.  
“Let's go to bed,” Maroni says, and helps Oswald off of the counter. “You go ahead, and get undressed; I'll be there in a second.”  
The hardness of the counter, and sitting like that for so long have left him stiff and clumsy. Is Maroni watching, does he see Oswald rubbing feeling back into his hips, limping and stumbling? Being known to be weak is tolerated, but when people see actual evidence of your weakness, the ordinary and ugly things you have to do, it does something to them; it brings out nasty parts of them that they'd probably deny existed.  
Or you get pitied, which lots of people will insist is worse, but Oswald doubts that they've experienced the alternative. Pity, you can work with. It's not really power- but it's a talent. There's a beauty in it, handling gracefully this thing that people with the luxury to despise it find so offensive and disgusting. Is it pity that he can read in Maroni's posture, in the dark? Just before Maroni gets into bed next to him, turns him onto his side, kisses the back of his neck and his shoulders, runs strong hands over his hips and his ass. How did Oswald not notice before, when he was being touched so gently, how strong Maroni's hands actually are, how steely their grip? It's like a trick- misdirection- you forget that something can be two things at once.  
“You ever do this before?”  
It takes him a moment to realize that the question is directed at him. “Do what?”  
“Ever get fucked?”  
Oh. “No.”  
“I didn't think so. Okay. We're gonna take this slow. Just relax.”  
“Okay.”  
It's a strange collection of sensations, most of them coming near pain, but not quite touching it. There's the feeling of being stretched, as though it were just a matter of unfolding him to his natural capacity. And an unsettling coolness and wetness that makes him start, only to be shushed like a nervous animal. And pressure. And then, being filled, which ignites nerves he didn't know he had, making him feel an odd fitfulness that, he imagines, could be good or bad, depending upon how one viewed it. The only time it truly hurts is when he's positioned oddly, and bears too much weight on his hip. He ventures some movement, but he's sure it's not right; he's not feeling the things he should be feeling, or pretending well enough. How could he? This isn't for his benefit, and it's not as though he has very much experience being used in this particular way. He's been expected to endure before, but never to pretend to like it. Is it like this all the time? Will he have to do this again? If he doesn't, does something worse await him?  
But he's obviously done something right, because Maroni finally comes, and really, it wasn't that terrible. Just a little bewildering. Then, he's left alone, and he's just wondering if it would be impolite to fall asleep, when Maroni comes back. Oswald turns to face him, because he knows it's the right thing to do.  
“The first time's never good,” Maroni says, with an expression that is more resigned than contrite.  
“No, it was-”  
“You don't have to lie to spare my feelings.”  
“Okay.” But he's so tired, suddenly, and he doesn't want to talk anymore, so he gets closer, lets himself fall against Maroni, as though he could sink into him. For this, he's kissed on the forehead and held for a long time. He's beginning to fall asleep when Maroni tells him that he has to get back to the party.  
“You stay here, though. Stay the night.”  
“Will you be back?” Why did he ask that?  
“I'll try.”  
“Okay,” Oswald says, yawns, and prepares to fall back into sleep. But with one eye open, he watches Maroni dress, in the dark. There's just enough light to make Maroni into a silhouette, rounded and sturdy, unbreakable. What's it like to inhabit a body like that? Does it feel safe? He's getting silly. He really needs to sleep.  
He does. He sleeps. Then, at some point in the night, Maroni comes back, gets into bed with him.  
“Are you asleep?”  
All he's able to get out is a sort of gurgling sound. Maroni laughs. Laughs, and kisses his exposed skin, touches him under the sheets.  
“You like that?”  
“Yes,” Oswald gasps, “Yes, I do.”  
“What do you like?”  
“I like you touching me. Could you put your hand on my hip? The cold isn't good for it.”  
“Here?” The warmth of Maroni's hand sinks into his skin and under.  
“Yeah. Like that.”  
“What happened to you?”  
“A long time ago, I took a fall. Needless to say, the penguin is a flightless bird. I healed badly.”  
“Shit.”  
“It was a long time ago.”  
“You want to sleep?”  
“You can stay.”  
“I'll stay, but if you want to sleep, I'll leave you alone.”  
“I'm already falling asleep again.” He yawns.  
“Okay. Sleep.”  
Oswald sleeps.

Though he knows he must confess, Oswald hesitates in telling Falcone.  
“I didn't quite know how to put it,” Oswald explains, hoping that's reason enough. For both of them.  
After an uncomfortably long time, Falcone laughs, “My own little Mata Hari. Well, has he told you anything illuminating in the heat of passion?”  
Oswald blinks. “No. No, he hasn't.”  
“Did you do that big-eyed, stammering thing for him? I'll bet he loved that.”  
“I'm not sure.”  
“Whatever you did, it worked. It's been a few weeks, you said. If you weren't making him happy, he'd find an excuse and take you out.”  
Happy. But what could Oswald be doing? As far as he knew, he was only being himself. Accommodations must be made, naturally. He can't kneel, so he has to sit, while Maroni stands before him, unclothed. It must be some compensation that he can hold his breath for a very long time, and that he has almost no gag reflex. If he has proper support, he finds that he can stand at a slight bend for longer than he thought he could. Nothing inhibits the range of motion of his hands or his wrists, though; everything works all right, there. It took him a while, but he thinks that he understands, now. Understands how it's supposed to feel, and what Maroni wants from him. And what he wants.  
What Oswald wants, what he's always wanted, is power. Is it power, perhaps, to be looked at with hunger by somebody, and to know that he can take that hunger away?  
He must also know that he's being eaten up, a piece at a time. That, maybe, someday, there will be nothing left of him to consume. In the chambers of his thoughts, it thrills him. What he truly desires hasn't changed, but he'll make room for wanting this, too. To want to be touched, to want someone to want to touch him. He used to try to imagine the kind of person he wanted, but what he's learning is that one body really is as good as any other. In the dark, Maroni is everybody. And he's nobody. And Oswald is nobody, too. In the dark, there's no shame in being nobody. Or being only a body. In feeling only what's before you, wanting only the next moment.  
“You got someone on the side I should know about?” Maroni asks him.  
“No. Why do you ask?”  
“You're not the way you were.”  
“How was I?”  
“Sort of shy. Now, I walk into the room, you're looking at me like you want to go for it right there.”  
“It must be what you bring out in me.”  
“Anyone else, I'd think that was a line, but you, I know you mean it. You don't say things you don't mean, do you?”  
“No, I always say what I mean. It's a good way to avoid being disappointed.” 

One day, soon, he's going to have to disappoint Maroni. Eventually, he'll have to disappoint Falcone, too. There'll be plenty of disappointment to go around. There's comfort in that knowledge; it's like seeing into the future. It's a future of his own making, which is even better. Real power, Oswald is learning, belongs only truly to the future. In fifty or a hundred years, after he's accomplished everything he set out to, the sheer brute force of the passage of time will make the world concede that it really was all for the best.


End file.
